Sin City
by MeAzrael
Summary: Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ... Set in season 3
1. Chapter 1

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

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><p><strong>AN:** This is my first multichap, and it took me more than a while, as short as it is. The reason why I started it and why I didn't gave up on it even when real life really sucked is BarbaraGER, my beautiful friend, m guide through the maze of SPN and my Beta. Thanks for your support, sweetums! Whatever mistakes remained are all mine – and please don't hesitate to make me aware of them (as well as of everything you like, if you'd be so kind :-) The story is completed, so a new chapter is coming up every weekend. Enjoy!

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><p><em>He didn't notice the flickering neon lights, melting into streams of color where his feet destroyed the blank surface of a puddle. Couldn't see the angry or frightened faces of the stray people that happened to cross his blind escape. Didn't hear the music coming from night bars or the wailing sound of an ambulance passing by. All he could see was a circle of faces, distorted with hate and disgust. All he could hear was the sound of beating fists and a terrible, wet wheezing. All he could feel was self-loathing. He had failed where he should have protected. Had lost what seemed to be his last fragile connection to life. Now there was nothing left to do but one thing: Vengeance! <em>

**_Odessa, Texas, March 2008_**

Sam winced in sympathy as he watched Dean returning from the bar, slightly limping and still bruised from their last encounter with the Supernatural.

"What?" Dean asked irritated, shoving one bottle of beer towards Sam and taking a healthy sip of his own. "The bartender wasn't familiar with the concept of non-alcoholic cocktails, so I went for a beer. No need to pull that bitch-face." Sam sighed. The details of their last hunt hadn't done much to cheer his soon-to-be-doomed brother up.

Well, it wasn't exactly fun to deal with a bunch of loopy students who thought summoning a druid would be a welcome change in their daily routine. Who could blame them? Building a fake Stonehenge in the center of the University of Texas of the Permian Basin, Odessa, obviously cried for some hillbillies to go all ritual sacrifice. It took one equinox and two stabbed virgins for the kids to find out what they had done. And some more would've finished their studies for good if Dean hadn't been able to give the druid a lesson in humility.

"How's your leg?" Sam asked with a little shudder. His brother finished the third bottle, waving a waitress for the next round. "I'll live", he grunted. "Though creepy old Getafix was damn skilled with his sickle, you gotta give him that. Imagine me hobbling into the pit on one leg. No real challenge for a bunch of hell hounds, don't you think?"

Sam choked on his lukewarm beer. Why the hell couldn't Dean stop joking about … IT? Only two more months to live – and still he'd act as if he didn't care. As if he didn't notice the heavy weight of guilt, shame and fear that threatened to crush Sam every time Dean mentioned the deal. "If you think that's ... "

Dean stopped him, fishing his vibrating cell phone out of his pocket. "Yeah? No, it's Dean. No, Dad is ... " his brother blinked, swallowing, "he's gone. Yes, thank you. What's on, uh – Steve?" He listened, his face all business, gesturing for a pen and a napkin. "Naa, you're kidding. ... Really? That's … gross. ... And that was like—2 days later? Uh-huh ... " a frown, more listening and scribbling, "Yep, got it. Flamingo, Las Vegas Strip, ask for you. Yeah, I think we can make it in two days. Ok, see ya."

One look at Dean's wicked grin was enough to arouse Sam's suspicion. "Spill it out, Dean, what's going on?" His brother tossed a few bucks on the table and fetched his jacket. "Sammy, my boy, for once in my life I'm going to mix business and pleasure. We're headed to Sin City. Aw, fancy bars, wet shirt contests, pool tournaments – I'm coming."

With the night a breeze had come up, and Sam enjoyed the cool airstream caressing his arms and wafting through his damp hair. Dean had finally succumbed to weariness, allowing his kid brother to take over, not without threatening him with torture in case he'd steer his black beauty into a lonely saguaro. Which right now didn't seem as impossible as Sam had indignantly thought when Dean had mentioned it. Because it felt like driving through a gigantic, firefly-lit cave – the desert black and silent under the Milky Way, hardly another car on the road, just at the horizon this weird silhouette of sparkling light in the middle of nothingness.

Sin City. Although known as Las Vegas, city of gamblers and adventurers, founded by a bunch of fighters for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, overtaken by ambitious mobsters under the glorious guidance of Bugsy Siegel and led to fame and fortune under the charismatic billionaire Howard Hughes.

All the way from Odessa Dean had been nearly hyperventilating with excitement, almost skipping the cause of their upcoming visit. "Guy on the cell phone? That was Steve, Steve Morgan. He was in the Marine Corps with Dad, you know, back in Vietnam. He's now working as head of security at the Flamingo in Las Vegas. Not too much fun lately, since he lost three of his men to gambling over the last two weeks."

Sam had huffed, trying to stretch his tarantula legs without crashing the dashboard. "And why's that supposed to be our kind of job?" he had asked.

"Well, imagine a guy skewered by a slot machine like shish kebab."

Sam had raised an eyebrow.

"Or a guy fed with poker chips until he suffocated."

That had caused a dry swallow on Sam's side.

"The last one was impaled by a cue – neatly from his mouth the whole way down to where the sun never shines."

The sudden dryness in Sam's throat had had nothing to do with the sun turning the Impala into a Finnish sauna. "Impaled? With a cue?"

"Yep," Dean had answered cheerful. "Must've been dealing with a real bad loser. Actually I can't see any human being strong or furious enough to do that. Sounds like our kind of job, don't you think?"

And Sam had to admit as much. Not that he was too excited about the prospect of his brother roaming Las Vegas, probably attracting all kinds of trouble with his irresistible attitude. But he knew that there was no way of talking Dean out of that job, especially when it involved an old friend of their father. Family business. Winchester honor. And most of all: Dean's feeling that he owed his Dad. Much. In fact everything.

After all John had traded his life for Dean. And Dean ... but that was a path Sam was afraid to follow. He couldn't. Couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Dean had made the deal. Would be dragged down to hell in a few fucking weeks. For _him_. How was he supposed to live with that?

A sudden jerking movement in the passenger seat drew him back into the here and now. Dean's face was distorted, his lips moving slightly. Sam nudged his shoulder gently.

"Dean, dude. Easy, it's only a dream."

Huge dark orbs blinked in his direction, confused. Then a giant yawn, just in time to hide whatever had wanted to escape his mouth.

"Jeez Sammy, why did you wake me? I'd just been getting somewhere with that blonde chick. She showed me an incredible trick with her tongue and ..."

"Please, Dean. TMI, remember? Anyway, we're nearly there. Which direction?"

"The Flamingo, bro. You can't miss it. Most famous one on the strip, right over there, see?"

And really, the desolation of the desert gave way to an onslaught of flickering neon lights, to broad highways, avenues of palms and huge buildings, illuminating the night in all colors. For Sam it looked as if a crazy bunch of giant toddlers had played with the most famous monuments from allover the world. The Great Pyramid, the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, small oriental villages in front of straight hotel towers …

"Earth to Enterprise, anyone at the controls?"

Dean's voice pulled him back. He managed to find the brightly lit "Flamingo", parked the Impala down at the huge garage and helped his brother to stuff their favorite guns, a healthy amount of rock salt and ammo for all kinds of possible encounters into their duffels. They took the elevator, crossed the frightening glamorous entrance hall and got jumped by a mountain gorilla in a black suit.

"Thank God, you've made it! You gotta be Dean. Boy, John spoke a lot of you. Didn't tell me you've inherited his good looks though."

After nearly crushing Dean's ribs the gorilla turned to Sam and slapped him on the back so hard that he was sure he could hear his teeth rattle.

"And you must be Sam – more than grown up, that's for sure." He turned the volume down a bit.

"I'm Steve. I'm so sorry for your loss, boys. I can't believe he's gone. Never knew another marine like him…"

He cleared his throat.

"Anyway. Too late to talk business today. I've got you a suite on the 12th Floor. You're checked in under the name Winfield. Bars and restaurants are open yet, if you'd like to eat something. Let's meet after breakfast in my office, how about 9 o'clock? I'm so glad you came. We can't afford much more bad publicity, and there's a bloodthirsty lot of piranhas from the press out there just waiting for another murder."

Sam stared at the man with his jaw dropped in awe. He exchanged a glance with Dean, both clearly wondering how any human could survive a nonstop monologue without taking a single breath. Oblivious to their stunned silence Steve smiled, wished them a good night and left, his bulky figure moving with surprising speed.

"He must've talked the Vietcong to shreds," Dean mused.

Sam chuckled. "Come on, let's hit the hay," he replied.

"You think they have mints on the pillow?"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, and suddenly his heart ached with a loss he hadn't suffered yet.

**_Next morning, Flamingo, Las Vegas_**

Sam got kick-started into the new day when he heard Dean's "Whoa" echoing out of the bathroom. He sat up startled, his heart pumping adrenalin like a sinking boat, while he was painfully reminded of his private little "Groundhog Day", with Dean dying on him over and over again.

"What ..." He was still trying to wriggle his large frame out of the sheets when Dean entered the bedroom with an ecstatic grin on his face.

"They have TV in the bathroom mirror, can you believe it? Aw, give me some Baywatch gals next time I'm in the shower."

"I'll give you some 'Psycho' next time you wake me up like that," Sam grumbled. But he had to admit that he enjoyed this upgrade to the shabby accommodations they were used to. Especially after he discovered the huge breakfast buffet in the dining room, offering everything to make their rumbling stomachs happy.

They entered Steve's office dead on time, were greeted with a bone-crushing handshake and sat in front of the imposing glass desk, ready for the briefing.

"Thanks again for coming, boys," Steve began. "Well, let's dive straight into the facts. As you know, I'm head of security here. That means dealing with real and wanna-be stars, with busloads of tourists and adventurers on the best of days. And with quarrelsome gamblers, drunken people, thieves and shady guys of all kind on any other usual day. It's like tending a crowd of savage apes sometimes."

Sam didn't miss the corner of Dean's mouth twitch at that.

"But most of the time we run a tight ship here, believe me. Only ..." He silenced, his bright blue eyes suddenly cast down, as if to scrutinize something awfully fascinating at the tip of his shoes.

"Only?" Dean offered, leaning forward.

"Uh, yeah," Steve continued. "Only two weeks ago there was this … accident. It was my day off. Gus Bronski was in charge that evening. Everything was alright until the tunnel people entered the Casino."

"Come again?" Sam interrupted.

"Homeless people who live down in the sewer system of the city. You know, over the last few years some of the homeless people chose to live in the storm drains. Mostly men, many of them addicted to alcohol, drugs or gambling. But there are a some women too, even kids."

"Kids living down there in the dark?" Dean asked incredulously. Sam gazed at him, knowing how much affection Dean held for kids behind the cool façade of his usual attitude.

"I'm afraid yes. Authorities estimate that at least 300 people are dwelling the sewer system permanently. Even the street people are afraid of them. They have nothing to lose, prefer the cold, wet and dangerous darkness to the daily battle above. And they stick together. So we knew we'd be screwed when this guy died on us."

"Whoawhoawhoa – who died? This the accident you told us about?"

Both brothers looked expectantly at Steve, whose eyes were again magically drawn by a stain on his otherwise immaculate shoes. When he turned his eyes to them, his face showed for the first time his real age.

"There were two of them. Tunnel people often try to sneak in, dressed in their best clothes, to look for coins people forgot in the slot machines. You wouldn't believe how often that happens – people feeding one machine after another and not hanging around to wait for the end of the game. Anyway, the older one is kind of a regular in the Casinos around the City. He's harmless, never gambling, never asking for trouble, just roaming and watching. The younger one – man, he seemed itchy. That's what Gus said. He probably got his hands on some bucks, had one drink too much, started to get rough when a guest wanted to grab his winnings. The older guy tried to appease him, but it was too late. He beat the guest, punched one of our security guards – so in the end three of our men had to haul his ass outside. And then things got out of control. They ... bashed him up. When Gus arrived, he lay on the soil, bleeding and unconscious. They called an ambulance, but it was too late. Forensics found out he had a heart failure. That's no excuse – this should never have happened. But it did. And a few days later the first of our guards was – err – killed."

Sam swallowed, recalling what Dean had told him.

"So you think the dead guy is on a revenge campaign?" Dean asked.

"I know he is." Steve replied with a sigh. "People from our security staff recognized the dead guy when the first killing happened. He just came through the doors, entered the room with the slot machines and shoved Phil into the lever – turned and was gone before anyone was able to react."

"Huh, kinda Dead Man Walking Reloaded," Dean threw in. Sam shot a disgusted glance at him.

"What, I'm just ..."

"Yeah, hilarious," Sam huffed. He turned to Steve. "Ok, you're right, definitely our kind of business. An angry spirit haunting the people who got him killed. We should go salt and burn him before he can kill more people."

"Salt and burn ... what?"

"The body of that tunnel guy," Dean repeated. "We salt and burn him to set his soul to rest. Do you know where he's buried?"

If possible, Steve seemed to shrink further into his massive black suit. "Ah, now – there is a little problem."

Both brothers shared an impatient look, eyebrows rising simultaneously.

"There is no body," Steve continued softly. "The corpse was stolen from the mortuary the following night."

**_TBC_**

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><p><em>Needless to say, but I do it anyway: your reviews are for me what apple pies are for Dean :-) <em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

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><p><strong>AN:** Hey, ready for Las Vegas and a little game with the Winchesters? Rain is tapping at my window, so I'd be tempted to envy our boys for a bit of desert sun ... if I wouldn't know what awaits them :-) Hope you enjoy, and if so: every review is a ray of light in my book.

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><p><em>A few hours later<em>

Sam narrowed his eyes when he entered the Pool area, blinded by the glistening light of the sun. Dean should be back by now from the mortuary. He had spoken to the night guard while Sam had done some research about the sewer system. There was no other trace to follow, so despite Dean's whining about dark, wet and stinking tunnels they had decided to go underground as soon as possible. He nearly walked by the guy in the beach lounger, chest bare, eyes hidden behind what looked like chilled cucumbers (man, seriously?), slurping Sangria from a frosted pitcher.

"Dean? Dude, you're starting to blend in perfectly with the plastic Flamingos all around you. Where's your sunscreen?"

His brother removed the cucumbers and drowned them in the pitcher.

"Relax, Sammy. I'm pretty sure I won't die from skin cancer. Try the Sangria, it's awesome."

With a scowl Sam grabbed a lounger and placed it beside Dean. "So what have you got, beside a sunburn?"

Dean shrugged. "Nada. Night guard did his usual round. When he came to the room where our stiff friend was supposed to rest in peace, the drawer was empty … and one of the fire doors stood open. Poor guy is looking for a new job – something nice and quiet. What about the tunnels?"

"Well, actually we're talking about a storm drain system. It's separated from the sewer system, which is fine, so we're not going to wade through … uh, crappy remnants."

"But?"

"But it's a maze, it's like the roman catacombs – about 500 miles of tunnels, chambers and ditches, running along under the city, and there's no map, so it's going to be like looking for a needle in the haystack. And some people down there don't respond very well to visitors … . Anyway, I guess there's no other way to find our guy. Steve gave me a picture of him from one of the security cameras – perhaps someone will recognize him."

Dean took a last sip of Sangria and put his shirt on. "Ok, genius. So we enter Hades, ask some of its inhabitants after a lost soul, hunt it down and burn it – should be a piece of cake."

"You have a better idea?"

"Nope. Let's grab our stuff and head to the next entrance. Which is?"

"Main Street Station."

"Awesome."

It was early afternoon when two men climbed down a column of rungs to a huge channel. Both were sweating with their warm jackets, heavy boots and backpacks. The shorter one seemed to have the lead, checking all directions as if he was expecting an attack of the killer alligator from below.

"Sonoffa … would you mind to watch my fingers? It's the second time you've planted your giant feet on them!"

"Sorry, I haven't got eyes at my boots," Sam huffed.

"And thank God for that – I have enough on my hands with a psychic brother."

"Dean, I'm not …"

"Woah!"

"Hey, what's wrong, you ok?"

"The eagle has landed, Sammy. And we seem to be on Waterworld. Jeez, how can it be so wet in the middle of a desert?"

Sam reached the ground with a splash, ready for a little lecture.

"Since the first recorded reports about a hundred years ago there have been serious flooding events every year in the Las Vegas Valley. That's the reason why they've built the Storm Drain System in the first place. It's rare, but when it rains in the mountains, it can lead to unprecedented flash floods – like houses swamped, cars washed away and people drowned. Some even died down here in the drain system – couldn't find their way out fast enough. Anyway, even on a dry day, there are millions of gallons of water flowing through the system."

"Well thanks – that's reassuring to know, my walking encyclowhatever."

Dean cast a last glance to the steep concrete walls on either side of the channel and walked towards the black entrance into the tunnel.

Inside there was a palpable drop in temperature. Cool water trickled from the ceiling, its sound echoing eerily from the walls. Plastic bags, Styrofoam cups and crumbled packages floated by, and not far away something splashed into the water. _No rat, please God, you know I hate those little bastards_. He nearly screamed, when something touched his shoulder.

"I think we should head into that direction", Sam stated, as if it were just a matter of finding the next diner.

Dean exhaled. He switched on the heavy Maglite, checked the easy access to his sawed off and nodded. "Let's go, the sooner we're done here the sooner I can enjoy the bright side of Vegas."

The Winchester brothers had seen places that easily reached the highest ranks of weird and spooky, but nothing had prepared them to walk this huge world of darkness and despair under the false sparkling and glitter of Sin City, home to the lost and forgotten, the losers who had run out of luck in the great game of life.

Darkness seemed to eat away the light of their strong flashlights, providing only a few feet of visibility at a time. Cold concrete walls magnified the constant dripping and the rushing sound of invisible streams around them. Every now and then they reached new junctions in the dark maze, and even with John's old compass it was difficult to maintain any sense of direction.

They had passed some smaller tunnels that seemed to be occupied, though no living soul had shown up yet. Most of the shelters looked like flotsam, recently washed ashore of an alien coast deep down under the surface of the earth, like out of a novel by Jules Verne. Moldy mattresses, ramshackle tables, sometimes even a small cupboard, oil lamps, candles, shelves with tins and a few dishes – that pretty much seemed to be the common equipment. Two times they heard footsteps, receding quickly, as they came near calling out for someone, anyone to come and have a word with them.

Once Dean slipped on the muddy ground and instinctively reached for the wall, nearly falling into a narrow room that opened just beside him. He cursed under his breath, turning to head back to the main tunnel when his eyes fell on a neatly made bed covered with a quilt, its cheerful colors somehow misplaced down here, guarded by a huge teddy bear whose ears showed the traces of a loving relationship with a child. A little red ball lay in the corner near the bed, beneath a small pair of shoes.

Dean thought he'd never seen a sadder place – except perhaps the hallways and cells of Dr. Ellicott's lovely sanatorium for the mentally disabled. He shuddered as he recalled the look of hate and disdain in Sam's eyes before his brother had pointed the shotgun at him.

He couldn't believe that any human soul had to seek shelter in this forlorn darkness. Couldn't imagine parents desperate enough to choose this threshold to Hell for their children. There had been times when he had silently agreed with his baby brother arguing about the crappy excuse for a home that John gave them though he'd never stopped protecting him and the way he raised his sons. Thinking back he recognized that their dad had loved them the best he could, had tried everything to make them feel safe, to provide his boys with all the skills to protect themselves if necessary.

He wondered what kind of life Sam would pick after ... after the crossroad demon had come to collect his soul. Perhaps he would go back to Stanford, become a lawyer after all, find another way to protect people. As happy as Dean initially had been to have his brother back, it sometimes scared him how being a hunter had changed Sam, how similar his deep obsession to find the yellow eyed demon or to develop a plan, any plan of saving Dean from the deal was to the way John had been. He wished a more peaceful and fulfilled live for his brother.

Who, by the way, wasn't anywhere near right now.

"Sam?"

Jesus, when had he last seen him? Before he stumbled into this room? He darted back to the main tunnel, wincing as he ran into cobwebs that only Spiderman could've produced.

"Sam, where are you, man!" _Huh, that sounded suspiciously desperate, must be the acoustic down here._

"Hope you didn't get lost, geek boy, cause you are carrying the compass." _Yeah, better! Had that been a splash, like a "rat-attack" splash, no, no way, and there wasn't anything like huge man-eating alligators down here either, urban legends, come on, you of all people ..._

He shrieked when he ran into something large and solid.

"Dean, what the Hell? You were gone all of a sudden. You could've gotten lost here."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Dean grumbled, fishing his flashlight out of the water where it had landed when he had bumped into his brother. "Let's go back, I don't think we ..."

"Hey strangers, would you mind shutting up your pie-holes before you wake something old and mightily pissed off here in the Mines of Moria?"

"The what?" Dean whispered quizzically, when a small, slightly crouched figure in a dark duster emerged out of the shadows, steadying himself on a large wooden stick.

"The Mines of Moria – it's Tolkien, Dean, Lord of the Rings."

"Like in the movies?"

Sam sighed, turning to the stranger. "And you are?"

"Gandalf the wee-zard," Dean muttered under his breath.

"A sense of humor, young friend, that's rare to find down here. You might need it, roaming the lonesome and treacherous paths of the Underworld."

The older Winchester felt his flesh crawl. He drew a bit closer to Sam, just in case he'd need to protect him.

The old man laughed, and despite the eerie echoes reflected from the tunnels around, it was a warm laughter.

"No need to wet your pants, son. You're lucky to have met me, not everybody in our little community is keen on unexpected visitors, whether they may be journalists, silly tourists or …" he eyed them sharply, "cops."

"Oh, we're no cops," Sam smiled his most convincing 'trust me, I'm the good guy'-smile. "We're just ... err ... insurance agents. We're looking for this guy."

He pulled the picture from the Casino out of his jacket.

"You don't happen to know him?"

The old man cast a glance at the picture. Sam thought he'd seen his expression darken for a second, though he wasn't sure in the poor light.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. This is an exclusive and discreet vicinity, we don't like nosy people, Mr. ... Insurance."

"Look, we don't want to bother anyone, we're just here on behalf of The Flamingo. There was an unfortunate – accident – that led to the death of this man here, and the Casino assigned us to look for anyone who knew him so we could find out about possible relatives."

"And lessen their pain with some smart-money? I bet!" the old man replied dryly. "As it is, I could use some kind of compensation too. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, if you know what I mean."

He switched the solid wooden stick from one hand to the other, suddenly not looking as fragile and small as he had seemed before.

"I guess that's just fair," Sam replied, frowning at his brother with a meaningful nod.

Dean grunted, fishing for ten dollars and holding the folded note in front of the old man's face.

"Hope it's worth it, my friend."

With a snakelike move the other grabbed the money and turned to walk away.

"Third tunnel on the right side," they heard him mutter, ""hat's where Mac Doherty lived. But beware of Bugsy, he is allergic to people sniffing around his place."

And with that he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

* * *

><p>AN: For all of you who are still enjoying my little trip to the shady parts of Las Vegas: thanks so much for reading. And for those very special people who take the time to review: you are the salt of the earth :-) To make up for the little delay of the 4th chapter I'll send the third one a bit earlier - and then take my flight to Split, the sun, the sea and a city that should be full of spirits, being as old as it is. See you soon.

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><p>"Now that guy just gave me the creeps," Dean huffed.<p>

"I hear you brother. Weird doesn't cover it. And who the hell is Bugsy?"

"Perhaps his pet rat? Let's go, I really don't like that place."

Silently they walked through the dripping dark, counting the junctions until they reached the third tunnel. It was narrow and winding, and the feeling of exploring a huge animal's intestines grew with every step, until they rounded the last corner and were greeted by a faint shimmer of light.

"What's that? Giant fireflies? The Devil's Grandma cooking some stew?" Dean would've rather eaten his tongue than to admit it, but he was ridiculously relieved to see light after spending what seemed like ages to him at this strange place.

"I guess it's a drainage ditch – they're running allover the city," Sam replied, moving faster towards the light. "That's great, we won't have to search the same way back. Probably that's the exit Doherty used to enter the Strip. Now we just have to find ..."

He nearly stumbled into Dean when he spotted a pale face contorted with pain, eyes burning with desperation, dark mouth gaping in a never-ending cry.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped, the trembling beam of his flashlight revealing more terrifying vivid portraits around the entrance of a huge chamber, some painted with what seemed like a mixture of ash, charcoal and blood, some other sprayed on the ceiling in the more aggressive colors of graffiti artists, revealing a whole pictorial broadsheet of figures.

The light flickered over scenes that could've been from old movies. People dancing the Charleston, a woman laughing, her hair cut in a short bob, her brows thin arks over playful eyes. Men sitting at a table, hats in their necks, smoking and playing cards. A boy, dressed like a punk, sitting in a corner, a horribly empty smile on his face, a syringe stuck in his arm, glowing in an eerie red as if it would suck the life out of him. Kids dressed in rags searching an old-fashioned garbage bin for something to eat.

"That's like friggin Michelangelo going Banksy," Dean whispered.

Sam turned to eye him suspiciously. "When on earth did you switch from porn to the history of art?"

"Hey, for the records – you're not the only one who ever visited high school, dumb-ass. And this is like the modern version of the Sistine Chapel, a really dark version, but it's ... great. If this Doherty guy did that, he could've earned more money than with sweeping slot machines for some forgotten bucks."

"Dean," Sam grabbed his arm, pointing at the far corner of the room. There was a small mattress with what seemed like a figure in a sleeping bag, giving it the look of a mummy.

They walked over, Sam aiming at the prone shape with his weapon and holding the flashlight in his left hand, while Dean cautiously unzipped the sleeping bag, gagging, when the sweet smell of decay reached his nose.

"Nothing can beat a fresh and juicy Mac," Dean wheezed, turning his head to avoid the obnoxious stench that evaded the inflated corpse. Sam tried to compare the blackened features with the picture they'd gotten from Steve. You could still see the broken nose and the bruises – he'd been beaten up pretty bad. No wonder this soul was full of wrath and hate, yearning to complete some unfinished business.

He flinched when he had a fleeting flashback of being stabbed by Jake, dying in his brother's arms, waking up in his own blood – not knowing what happened, but filled with terror and cold rage ...

"Sam! You alright?"

He nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah, uhm – sure. It's him, Dean. That's Mac Doherty. We should salt and burn him before he decides to swing by and interrupt our BBQ."

"I couldn't agree more." Dean closed the sleeping bag, took his backpack and grabbed the lighter fluid, while Sam generously poured salt over the wrapped body.

"Zippo," Dean demanded, when a low growl from behind froze him in mid-motion.

_Aw, come on – you gotta be kidding me..._

The men slowly turned to face a dog, scratch that, not only a dog, a pit bull terrier, if they'd ever seen one – all tendons and muscles, snarling at them with his fangs gleaming like a Colgate ad, small ears nearly glued to the sturdy head, eyes studying them in an almost scrutinizing way.

It looked at the sleeping bag, drenched with fuel and covered with salt, its growl switching into a forlorn howl for a second. Then all the muscles became motion – with one goal: Dean.

It felt like being hit by a truck. He was thrown on top of the corpse, his skull crashing into the wall with a painful thud. Dazed, he tried to roll off the wet bedroll, one arm raised to protect his face. Remotely he heard Sam yell, but he was too occupied with avoiding razor-sharp teeth going for a healthy bit of raw Winchester.

He'd once heard that pit bull terrier would never let go of whatever ended between their jaws … their hunting instincts overpowering every other emotion. _Just my luck._

A warm fetid breath hit his nostrils. He jerked, pushing his flashlight into the dripping muzzle while he shoved the heavy body away. The stupid dog seemed to have missed the documentation about biting reflexes … the clatter of the flashlight mixed with a gunshot and a furious howl.

The pit bull turned towards Sam, multiple little wounds from the rock salt leaving rivulets of blood on the dark skin. Sam fired a second time, but missed the creature in the poor light. He lifted his leg just in time to meet the open jaw with his hiking boot. Even through the heavy leather he felt the sting of sharp teeth, nonetheless kicking with all the power he could master. It sent the dog flying into the dark and bouncing on the ground, stunned. Dean added a solid blow with his Maglite to the animal's head.

"Sweet dreams, Cujo", he panted, swaying a bit. His own skull hurt like hell – a feeling he was more than glad to share with the beast that had turned up out of thin air.

"Did he get you?" he asked with a glance at his brother.

"Nothing serious. You?" Sam raised his flashlight, catching a glimpse of Dean's pale face.

"Uh, please – stop the light show. And give me the Zippo … I don't wanna be around when this puppy wakes up."

After a short and frantic search Sam produced the lighter, set the sleeping bag on fire and dragged his still fuzzy brother to the entrance of the chamber.

The creepy drawings seemed to come to live in the flickering light, faces and figures dancing, reaching out, laughing and crying to the crackle of the fire. He shuddered.

"Come on, let's move", he urged, and both men stumbled through the tunnel towards the exit, towards light and warmth and the comforting hustle and bustle that was Las Vegas.

Sam had been right about their location. The tunnel opened into a wide and open drainage ditch with steep concrete walls on both sides. They had been built to avoid the worst whenever one of the torrential flash floods from the dry mountains was rushing towards the arid basin where the first missionaries had built their outpost to convert the Paiute Indians to Mormonism. It was kind of ironic that what was to become Sin City had to fight against almost biblical floods ever since it was founded. Almost as if the new inhabitants were never meant to make that place their own.

All that was lost on the Winchesters who climbed first the ladder rungs that where set in the wall and then the wired fence that protected the ditch. Dean leaped to the ground and swayed a little. Sam could see how exhausted his brother was, though the stubborn son of a bitch tried to hide the slight limp from his recent encounter with an infuriated druid.

He made a mental note to give Dean some quality time. No bitching about tanning at the pool, spending the sunrise with Tequila and the sexy bartender or hustling ... life was too short to work 24/7. Especially his brother's life.

So after a short phone call with Steve to give him the good news, a long shower at their room and a decent dinner in one of the Casino's restaurants Sam suppressed his usual huff when Dean decided to grab a few beers at some bar. His brother had been oddly quiet the whole evening. Something seemed to bother him, but Sam hadn't been able to get more than the usual "I'm fine".

"Yeah, sure, have fun," his yawn was only half feigned, "I think I'll hit the hay early."

"What, no lecture, no 'you need some sleep' speech?" Dean asked baffled.

"Hey, come on, I'm not your baby-sitter."

"I sure hope so," Dean grinned, "cause you totally lack their common features. I like mine brunet and a bit more ... buxom."

He ducked under a fake blow from Sam and left, chuckling.

Sam watched the tall figure with the dark leather jacket leave, his stride self-confident despite the various new bruises he'd gotten that day. How was it possible that all this could be extinguished in an instant? The energy, the zest for life, the bad-ass attitude that couldn't disguise a vulnerable soul, the only constant in Sam's live which he'd always known he could rely on, even during the time in Stanford when he had tried to find his own way, to escape the family business.

Damn, he felt so helpless. All his secret research had brought up a friggin capital NADA about how to haul his brother's ass out of that fucked-up mess.

He nearly knocked over his chair when he stood up abruptly in anger and frustration. With a major mental effort he pulled himself together and walked through the brightly lit halls of the Casino, hardly noticing the constant buzz of excitement. It was about 11 p.m. The gambling tables were overcrowded, some people enjoying the game with friends, laughing, others watching the dices or cards with a hypnotic plea in their eyes or with a cold, businesslike facade on their faces.

"Sam?"

Startled he looked around, searching the crowd.

"Sam, up here – come and join us."

Finally he could make out Steve, standing by a row of slot machines on the first floor, waving frantically. Beside him a tall man in a black suit was leaning casually against the balustrade. He exchanged a few words with Steve, who nodded and pointed at Sam.

The younger Winchester had reached the top of the stairs when a simply dressed guy was approaching the two men from behind. Something about him seemed strangely familiar to Sam. The second Steve's companion caught a glimpse at the man his tanned face went paler than a sheet. He took a step back and nearly fell over the railing, but the guy grabbed him by the jacket, spat some words in his face and pushed him head over heels into a blinking slot machine.

With a sickening crack the glass front broke, the power of the impact driving the man into the machine up to his chest. There was a blinding display of electric sparks, playing over the twitching figure of the captured man, then all the lights on the first floor died.

For a moment everything stood still, like a bad movie on freeze frame. Then all hell broke loose.

People around them tried to reach the stairs, screaming, cursing, bumping into each other in panic. Sam's hunter instincts kicked in. The main hall provided enough light to see the killer run down the floor and escape through a fire exit. Sam followed him, taking three steps at a time. In the narrow staircase there was only the sound of their stomping feet and ragged breaths, then another clang of the heavy fire door.

"Sam?"

He recognized Steve's voice. The fleeing man glanced up and stumbled, nearly falling. He scraped the rough wall with his shoulder, regaining his balance, but he'd lost a few seconds. Taking a shortcut by grabbing the handrail and jumping down to the next landing Sam managed to catch a fistful of the man's jacket. He tried to haul him back, but in a catlike motion the guy turned, grabbed Sam's collar in return and rolled the tall hunter over his shoulder.

In a whirl of clothes, limbs and muffled grunts both men slid down the last steps and collapsed against the wall in a heap. Disoriented and breathless from the impact Sam lay there, unable to move. He felt the man draw back, heard him stumble downstairs, then Steve was by his side, gasping.

"Sam – Jeez, did he hurt you?"

"Huh?"

Frantic hands slid over his bloodstained shirt, his jeans, before Steve breathed a sigh of relief, carefully helping Sam up to his shaky legs. Both men's eyes followed the track of shimmering droplets of blood that led to the backdoor. When they reached the back alley, everything was dark and silent. The small track of blood stopped at a grated storm drain cover.

"I thought you had stopped him", Steve muttered. "I thought the nightmare was over. And now Gus is dead. And the next one on the list would be me." His giant frame seemed shaken and kind of shrunk, the usually booming voice small.

Sam kneaded his aching temples. "That guy was Mac? I … I don't get it. We salted and burned the body. There has to be something else. Something special linked to him. Or …"

Steve flinched when the younger Winchester shouted in frustration. "Oh crap. You've got to be kidding me. Come on, let's get back, quick – I need to check something."

– TBC –


	4. Chapter 4

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

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><p><strong>AN:** Hey folks, I'm back from the beautiful coast of Croatia – and though we really did our best to meet some mean spirits in the rough mountains and valleys, monasteries and castles there, they must have sensed that a huntress was near - so not a single one showed. My heartfelt thanks to each and everyone of you who reviewed – and although to everyone who took the time to read. Here is your reward – enjoy!

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><p>"Mmmh, I think I'm about to hit the Jackpot again," Kathy (or Kathleen? Kate? Things had gotten a bit foggy between the third round of cocktails at the bar and the way to her room) purred. Her small hand slid down to make an excursion around his one-armed bandit, which was more than eager to meet her, despite the dangerously long and glittering fingernails that cried for a weapon license.<p>

"I hope you know how to operate a gadget like this, ma'am," he whispered. His hands, his hips, his lips knew exactly how to play the game, caressing, rolling, exploring, registering every move, texture, reaction of the body next to his. He knew how to give and take pleasure as blindly as he knew how to take apart a gun.

Problem was: usually his mind was fixed on the first one, while it could walk free doing the latter. Today it was different. He couldn't forget the oppressing darkness of the world that lay beneath the blazing lights of Las Vegas. The solitude beneath the crowded casinos, malls and bars. The desperation beneath the frantic joy. It was like someone had hold up a mirror to Dean.

During the first weeks after the deal it hadn't been hard to pretend that everything was alright. Sammy was back. Alive. They had ganked the yellow-eyed bastard that had killed their parents. And he had one year to share with his brother, to suck the last drop out of life.

It just didn't work.

The girls, the bars, the hunting – everything seemed tainted with the thought of his remaining time, slowly ticking away. He could see the same clock in Sam's eyes who followed every move of his brother as if he'd be fading away the next second. And now, with only a few more months to live, there was hardly a moment without that terrible fear of letting go. Once and for all. No merciful oblivion but everlasting hell. How was he supposed to handle that, damnit!

He balled his hands into fists, thrusting his hips forward in desperation until every conscious thought was melting away, until he could rest in a warm and wordless embrace.

He left the room freshly showered and a little embarrassed. When he walked through the entrance hall, he saw Kate-oh-whatever's friends sitting at the bar, exchanging glances and giggling like a bunch of college girls when they discovered him. He tipped a finger at his head with a short nod and headed to the exit. The Sunset Strip was bathed in all shades of neon lights, reflecting in a dark clouded sky. Heat lightning flickered over the far hills. Looked like he wouldn't need sunscreen tomorrow ...

His cell phone vibrated. When the hell had he switched it to vibration?

"Yeah?"

"Dean? Aw, thank God. I tried to call you a dozen times, where on earth have you been?"

"I – Steve? What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong? You could say so. First that son of a bitch killed Gus, then there's a fight in the staircase ..."

"What? Sam! Is he hurt?"

"No – at least he wasn't when I last saw him."

"Whaddaya mean, last saw him?"

"Christ, Dean, let me tell you, okay? We followed the ghost down to the alley, but he'd vanished into the sewer system. Then Sam get's all fussy, wants to see our surveillance tapes, first the new ones, then the ones from the evening when that guy, Mac, freaked out at the Casino."

"Go on man, get to the point, where's Sammy?"

"Well, we watch that tape with Mac and that older guy standing side by side in front of a slot machine, and the old guy is glancing up, and there's that weird thing with his eyes, they get all silvery for a second, like a ..."

"Shapeshifter! Holy shit, we're so screwed!"

"That's what your brother said, too. And off he was, up in your room to get some stuff and then climbing down the storm drain cover where the guy vanished."

"Wait, Sammy's gone after a Shapeshifter? Alone?"

"He tried to reach you, told me to try it again. Took me until now to get through to you. The police is allover the place after what happened to Gus – so I couldn't get away to help Sam."

"I – never mind. Steve, listen, you have to do me a favor." And while telling Steve what he needed Dean headed towards the storm drain channel they had climbed up that same afternoon, praying that it wasn't too late.

It had been dark in the tunnels when they had entered them that afternoon. It was pitch-black now, without any daylight coming through one of the occasional drop inlets. The beam of Sam's flashlight illuminated a small path in front of his feet. He had stopped to look at anything beside that path after what had seemed a strange pattern on the concrete walls turned out to be a tribe of huge cockroaches on the warpath. No signs of the gory remnants a creature like that would leave while changing its 'outfit'. If there had been any, they would've been washed away by now.

For anyone who didn't know the younger Winchester his thrusting pace would have indicated cold determination. Actually he just couldn't decide which emotion should get the better of him. Fear? Guilt? Confusion? Or pure and burning anger! Cause – seriously: what the fuck! How could they not have noticed that this wasn't a simple salt and burn?

A ghost, coming back to kill his tormentors! And who had taken the corpse from the morgue? Had kept it down here in the underground near himself, as a constant reminder, maybe as a comfort, an ill attempt not to be alone?

Sam stumbled and landed with a splash in the ankle-deep water. For a moment he could see a glittering swarm of tiny fishes scatter across the shuddering beam of his flashlight. Minnows probably. Fascinating.

He got up, glad that his Maglite was waterproof. His wet jeans clung to his legs, leaving him cold and uncomfortable.

So – the old guy that had been with Mac wasn't just a run-of-the-mill bum. No, he had to be a Shapeshifter. Congrats, Team Winchester. Just your luck.

The shiver running down his spine wasn't caused by his wet jeans or the cold tunnel. He recalled his first encounter with a Shapeshifter all too well. Though it seemed to him as if ages had passed since he and Dean had been at St. Louis to help Becca and Zach.

Back then he had still believed that he would return to Stanford, would finish his studies, lead a normal life. He had thought that he could keep his university friends, keep his foot in both worlds for a while. He had been wrong. Though Rebecca and her brother were grateful for his help they had been creeped out by the fact that there ARE monsters in your closet sometimes, creatures you'd love to see in a horror movie, but never in your own life. So after a few calls and messages the connection had been cut somehow. As had his dreams of being a lawyer.

Hey! Was that a movement in the tunnel next to him?

His flashlight found a pair of red eyes glaring at him. The well-nourished rat squealed indignantly and plunged into the stream. The rushing of the water got louder. He couldn't remember that it had been so high in the afternoon.

Somewhere around here there had to be the junction to the tunnel that led to Mac's quarter. At least he really hoped so. He opened his cell phone and huffed. No reception. Big surprise. Dean would be so pissed about his little brother's one-man-show. But there were lives at stake. And the sucker was injured. So Sam just needed to chase him down. Because the creature could change it's look any minute, could come back for revenge with the appearance of someone other, someone familiar ...

He shivered again at the recollection of the creature that had taken over Dean's features – and more – back then at St. Louis.

_"I__ am__ your brother. See, deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends. You could have a life. Me? I know I'm a freak. And sooner or later, everybody's gonna leave me."_

How could that thing have known what Sam never would've figured out? What his real brother never would've admitted? Because yeah, that son of a bitch had been a murderer and con artist, but deep down Sam knew the shifter had told the truth about the emotions he had somehow adopted.

In the end Dean had killed the monster and left a body that had been a duplicate of his own in every detail. An image burned in Sam's soul forever. Looking down at his dead brother had been sort of a revelation. Dean had always seemed invincible to Sam. Funny, considering the uncounted times he had been badly hurt.

But if there was one person in Sam's life that'd always been there to protect him against any kind of threat, even a bullying kid in school … it was Dean. So Sam had somehow relied on the fact that his big brother would always be around, no matter how often he'd wished to be free to make his own decisions – and mistakes.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam noticed a movement – a dark shadow flickering across the wall beside him, it's outline strange and misshapen. His grip on the flashlight tightened, while his right hand flew to the knife-sheath at his waistband.

"Woah, hey, nice and easy, no need to draw your sword, Sir Galahad. You won't kill an unarmed man, will you."

The soft laughter that accompanied the words came from the right. At the entrance to a small tunnel stood a slightly hunched man, leaning on a wooden stick. Sam recognized the stranger that had told them how to find Mac's chamber earlier. The man looked around quizzically.

"Where is the young lad that was with you? Did you lose him?"

Sam winced but let his hand hover over the knife, opening the button.

"Better safe than sorry, huh?" the old man said sympathetically, lifting his arms in a placating gesture. "I suppose you found Mac – and Bugsy. I told you he doesn't like strangers."

"Perhaps you should've told us that Bugsy is a rabid pitt bull. It nearly tore us to shreds," Sam huffed, cautiously moving towards the tunnel entrance where he could smell the sickening odor of burned flesh and fabric. Mac's quarter was near.

"He protected what he loved", the other hissed. His stick cut through the air and hit Sam's right wrist with a force that nearly took his breath away. He screamed, trying to curl around the stabbing pain. For a second black dots danced before his eyes, then everything exploded in a huge ball of white fire when the stick was battered at the back of his skull with a sickening thud.

Dean paced across the parking lot near the drainage ditch, fiercly cursing the fact that for once he hadn't taken the Impala when he'd gone out for a drink. He hadn't wanted to risk getting caught drunk driving with a trunk full of weapons – and now he stood there waiting for the cavalry, unarmed, unprepared and desperately counting the seconds. Stupid Idjit!

It had started to rain – and judging from the rolling thunder that was only the overture. The ditch was already filling with water. He hadn't followed the stream of facts and figures his freak brother had told him about floodings in this cursed city, but he prayed that they wouldn't end in the midst of a retaliation from mother nature.

Again he punched the speed dialing for Sam just to get the friggin mailbox. "Damn Sammy, why couldn't you wait for me", he growled, knowing that he would've done exactly the same. Maybe Sam had learned a bit too much from him.

A pink Cadillac skidded over the wet tarmac and came to a halt in front of him. Steve's huge frame wormed his way out of the driver's seat. He was wearing black chinos, heavy boots and a dark sweater, looking like a one-man-SWAT-unit. The contrast was enough to conjure a smile on Dean's tensed features.

"What the hell. I thought you just wanted to send me someone with the supplies …"

"Nah, I guess it's my turn to help. I mean I am in charge for the safety of the 'Flamingo'. What happened that evening may not have been my fault, but I feel responsible for it. After all, it was my staff. Anyway …," he interrupted Dean's attempt to object, "I can't just sit in my office and wait for that thing to come in and kill my men – or me. I'd rather die kicking some ass – or kill the scumbag first."

He smirked, nudging Dean.

"And if I have to fight there are worse comrades than a Winchester, right?"

Dean felt a familiar pang of loss. He nodded, asking: "Did you find the revolver and the silver bullets in my duffel bag?"

Steve pulled the weapon and ammunition out of his jacket and handed it to Dean. Something long and gleaming fell out of his pocket with a clang. Dean frowned, bending over to it.

"And that'd be…"

"Err", Steve awkwardly fetched the artfully adorned knife, "that's my Grandma's silver cutlery."

"Your Grandma's …"

"Oh come on. It's not as if I have a secret weapon department in my office desk, with a nice range of silver weapons to kill supernatural creatures, you know? I was happy that I could come up with that knife, so don't be ..."

When Steve looked at the crooked smile on Dean's face he couldn't stifle a laugh. "Ok, you had your fun. Now let's go and find the beauty and the beast, I don't know how much time is left before the tunnels fill with water. And I'd really hate to spoil my precious outfit."

"Sure. What would your Granny say."

Dean jumped to the left to avoid being smashed by the giant's hand and sprinted towards the rung that would lead them back into the abyss, back to his brother.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

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><p><strong>AN:** Hi everyone, the new season has begun, and everyone who is – like me – missing the times when crossroad demons were the most complicated thing in the Winchester's life, like before 'Apocalypse' and 'End of the world reloaded', enjoy! :-) And my most humble thanks to the beautiful bunch of people who keeps encouraging me with the sweetest reviews – hugs and a bottle of Champagne to all of you!

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><p>Sam came around with a gasp, hardly able to process the onslaught of sensations that followed with a rush. Small streams of water crawled around his prone body like icy fingers reaching for him. The smell of decay and burned flesh made him gag, and there was a never ceasing rushing in his ears. But on top of the list with a huge advance to all the minor inconveniences stood the overwhelming, crushing pain in his right wrist. He gingerly tried to twist it and nearly fainted, a white-hot ache flashing through his arm like a razor blade.<p>

"Wha … ohhh shit!"

His attempt to sit up with the help of his other hand earned him nothing but another wave of pain, trying to make friends with the cramp in his stomach and celebrate the get-together by bringing up the dinner in a firework of vomit.

"_Breathe"_, his brain said in Dean's voice, _"come on – in, out, in, out – you're not gonna puke, boy, you're gonna open your eyes very slowly and cautiously and scan the surroundings, ya hear? Cuz someone or something is around, you can sense that, right?"_

Pissed as he was about getting commands by his brother via his subconscious, he did as he was told. He breathed (in, out, in – aw God: that hideous stench) and slowly opened heavy lids, trying to make sense of the blurry picture his eyes revealed.

Faces, figures, people at the wall – dancing in the flickering light of an old-fashioned oil lamp … on the right the burned remnants of a small bed with a gruesome pile of bones, mattress and bedroll melted together … and at the opposite wall, sitting in deep shadows, a large figure that seemed strangely familiar. Lean but brawny, the face framed with strands of brown hair, eyes huge, soft and scrutinizing.

"And here I thought I was the screwed up freak of nature", his counterpart said pensively, and something in Sam shuddered and flinched back, because he knew this voice, this face, this figure like his own, and it felt terribly wrong to look into a living mirror of his.

"You stole my body", he hissed.

"Nah", the other winked, "I've only borrowed it. It might … useful … in order to finish my business."

"And what might that be, killer?"

The one with his face grinned, mirthlessly. "You of all people should understand how liberating it is to take revenge. You did it yourself, didn't you."

It took a huge effort not to show the fear those words ignited in Sam's soul. "What do you mean?" he asked. But he already knew. This creature not only had taken his body but his memories too, had ransacked the secret corners of his mind – and it sure as hell wouldn't hesitate to use them against him. All his experience as a hunter was worthless if his enemy could figure out each and every strategy he could come up with.

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, kid. You watched your mom burn, watched your girlfriend die the same way, not able to help her. You try not to think about it, shut it out of your mind, but it tortures you at night, in your dreams – and it only got better after that yellow-eyed sonofabitch had what he deserved.

You've never been part of the normal apple-pie-life, as much as you craved for it. Even before you knew why, you knew THAT you were different. And that was before you roamed a darkness that no soul is meant to leave again. There's one thing that keeps you sane, and that's your brother. So don't tell me you don't know nothing about feeling weird and lonely and vengeful. You are very much like me, chum. No matter how much you deny it."

While listening with his head hung low Sam frantically searched the dimly lit room for any kind of weapon.

"You looking for this?" the other mocked, holding up the gun that Sam had tucked up in his jeans. "Silver bullets – you sure know how to lead a crusade."

Crap!

"You bet," Sam spat, wincing at the spikes running through his wrist at the same pace as his heartbeat "but unlike you we don't kill innocent people – only the fuglies who're threatening them."

"Oh please, spare me the clichés", his mirror huffed, getting up and starting to pace the room, unaware of the constantly rising water.

"There's no such thing as innocent people. I've been living in this godforsaken city since they've built the first railway station around here. I've polished the shoes of Bugsy Siegel, I've watched the mobsters fight for every crumb on this plate like it was a damn gold rush, and since then nothing has changed. People love the glitter, the dream, the game. Outcasts, misfits, losers? They have to stay in the shadows, invisible, mute. Or else they make them vanish."

His voice had become louder with every sentence until he was shouting in rage, slamming his fist in the wall, leaving a visible dent in the concrete. Sam swallowed.

"Listen…"

"No! You listen! Those perfumed asshats are gambling for hundreds of bucks without batting an eye – but crying murder when someone takes a few forgotten dollars from the slot. And the security guys? They grab him, punch him, beat the living crap out of him until he's just a pile of broken bones. And for what? For a few dollars? Or just because they can. Because they know he's a nobody who lives in the pit, deep down under their lusters and marble stairs and neon-lights! Tell me, who is the monster now? Me? I don't think so…"

"Mac died of a heart attack," Sam said softly, trying to reason with the man while hoping he would come near enough to tackle him somehow – preferably without involving his wrist which was swollen to an impressive size. "Of course they had no right to beat him, but it was an accident. You think killing all those people will make anything better?"

"I don't care if it get's better, Sam. I'm sick and tired of being the one left behind, the one who has to live when everyone I've ever loved is dead. Mac was like family to me. The only family. What would you do if your brother would die like that? What _will_ you do? When they'll drag him away from you?"

He bent down, his eyes searching Sam's. It was a strange thought, but for the first time Sam understood what Dean meant with the 'goddamned puppy-dog eyes' – he felt bad for the guy. In a way that he'd never admit he understood his rage. But he was hurt and he was scared and he simply couldn't let the guy go and kill more people. He tensed, ready to go for a head butt, followed by a left hook. But his opponent narrowed his eyes, as if he had direct access to Sam's brain.

"Sam?" A distant voice, hardly audible above the rushing water.

"Sammy! Come on, gimme a sign…"

Dean!

He opened his mouth.

"Sorry", said a soft voice, and something collided with his skull. Again.

About 15 minutes after entering the tunnel system Dean's priority list had clearly changed. "Kill that fugly bastard" currently held position 3, after "Find Sam, get the Hell out of here" and "Do not get knocked out by highspeed flotsam". At the last moment the flickering beam of his flashlight revealed a beach chair rushing towards him. He dodged it, swinging his hips like a torero and wincing when his recently hurt leg nearly gave way. Steve wasn't as lucky, cursing in his best marine style.

The two men were wading through knee-deep and surprisingly cold water. The current seemed to have reached several inhabited spaces down here. Dean tried hard not to think about the little room with the teddy bear from his first visit, hoping that most of the regular inhabitants of this underworld had been experienced enough to evacuate in time. His walking encyclopedia of a brother probably had the stats about drowned tunnel people. How the hell could Sam live with so many facts? Dean would've felt paralyzed by knowing how bad their odds to survive usually were …

"Any idea where to find them?" Steve shouted over the increasing rush of the water. "Cause if the rain doesn't stop anytime soon we'll be seriously screwed."

"No shit!" Dean grumbled. He gestured at a smaller junction, hoping that he recalled their earlier route to Mac's quarter right, disorientated from the noise, the darkness and his worry for Sam. "This way," he called, turning around the corner. Something huge and flailing bumped into him without any warning, wrapping around him and taking his breath away. Too surprised to act other than by pure instinct, he let go of the flashlight, trying with both hands to get rid of the attacker.

He didn't hear his own yell, didn't feel anything but the oppressive weight of the total blackness around him, the moldy smell of the material pressed on his face, the panic rising from the bottom of his guts. Someone grabbed his shoulder, hollering at him. And suddenly he was free, the weight gone, enough air to breathe – breathe, finally, aw God!

"What the fuck?" he rasped, blinking when a bright light momentarily blinded him.

"Dean! Calm down, everything's alright – it's gone". Steve, weak with tension and relief, started his rumbling laughter, absolutely inappropriate but somehow soothing.

"What. The. Fuck!" Dean tried again, and shoved the hand with the irritating light away from his face.

"Oh yeah, sorry. You …" – further gurgling and laughing, not so funny anymore, "you were attacked by an air bed". He pointed with his flashlight at something huge and misshaped, bobbing on the water and vanishing around the corner. "Must've been washed from some shelter down here with the flood."

Dean swore and went fishing for his Maglite that cast a faint glow under the water. He grabbed it and followed Steve down the tunnel.

"Sam!" He didn't care anymore if the monster of the week could hear him, he only wanted to fetch his brother and get the hell out of here.

"Sammy! Come on, gimme a sign …"

Water, endlessly rushing through the dark like the mythical river Styx, separating the world of the living from the realm of the dead, dissolving every clear thought, every memory. He shuddered.

A tall figure broke away from the shadows, swaying, clutching one arm as if in pain.

"Sam! What happened, you okay?"

Steve was the first to reach the staggering man, streching out his hand to help him.

Time seemed to come to a screeching halt.

Dean knew – even before the beam of his flashlight could reveal a telltale silvery flicker of eyes. He screamed a warning, tried to move faster against the pressure of the water, but it was too late. Not-Sam seized Steve's outstretched arm, grabbed his head with the other hand and pushed it towards his raised knee – breaking his nose from the grinding sound of the impact.

With a choked holler the ex-marine rammed his head into the others stomach, throwing him off balance. Together they plunged into the water, fighting and grunting. Seconds later both heads popped up a few inches away.

Dean drew his weapon, holding it tight to the flashlight and trying to take aim, but he couldn't risk to hit Steve by chance – and what was worse: he didn't know if he was able to kill someone who looked exactly like his little brother, from the familiar strands of too long hair to the grim mouth with it's disdainful smile ...

The sturdy security man was fighting with desperate force, but the Shapeshifter not only possessed Sam's tall and muscular body yet although the murderous determination of a pit bull (which, come to think of it, rang a bell …). He struggled to find his stance against the current, holding Steve in an iron grip and strangling him with both hands, using the man's body as a shield against Dean's weapon.

Damn those freaks of nature! There was no chance in hell to shoot the bastard.

The older Winchester stowed the gun away and made a few cautious steps – the water now waist-deep and tearing at him like a bunch of frightened kids. If he could only move close enough to get a better angle.

In a last desperate motion Steve pushed his head back until it collided with the Shapeshifter's skull, using the short moment of surprise to turn and thrust the intricately adorned silver cutlery into his attacker. The anguished cry echoed from the tunnel walls, filling Dean's ears until he thought they would explode. A long-fingered hand – not Sam's, but oh, so much like it – clutched Steve's sweater and drew him close, down into the stream and away from Dean.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

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><p><strong>AN:** Hi friends and readers – everything must come to an end (nah, don't get your panties all in a bunch, we have this chappy and an ... err, rather short last one) – so try to let this one melt on your tongue :-) I hope you won't be disappointed by the slightly surprising path I went with the story. Anyway, you gave me everything I needed to feel happy with my first "baby" and I hope it won't be a single child for long. Love you!

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><p>For a moment everything was numb. His emotions, his thoughts, the growing pain in his injured leg – blurred like the semi-conscious state of mind after a strange dream.<p>

"_What am I supposed to do? Go get the monster, try to rescue Steve – or at least make sure nobody else will ever be killed by that son of a bitch? And Sammy? What if he's already dead, drifting through these dark tunnels ... alone … and I wasn't even there to hold him."_

With that thought the world came rushing back, together with the relentless swoosh of water. Frantically he searched his surroundings with the small beam of light, looking for the entrance to Mac's quarter. It was his only clue to find Sam. He wouldn't be able to systematically search miles and miles of channels during that flooding – he probably wouldn't even make it out of here if he stayed any longer.

"Sam! Where are you? Sammy!"

He limped through the water, dodging drifting objects, voice hoarse from shouting, heart rough from tormenting images of his brother, limp and lifeless – and of someone else, looking very much alike, smiling coldly while satisfying his thirst for vengeance.

He nearly sobbed when he recognized the freak gallery around a small entrance, the water only shallow here. The stench inside was stunning, and at first his flashlight revealed nothing but the sooty remnants of their last salt and burn, looking like the set of a really sucking horror movie.

Then he noticed a figure sitting slumped against the wall.

Please, God! Don't do that to me. Don't take him away again!

Dean knelt down, ignoring the cold water and his injured leg, the stitches tugging and tearing. Carefully he took Sam's face in both hands, looking at the peaceful features, softly stroking caked hair from a bleeding gash over the right ear.

"I'll break your bones one after another if I ever get my hands on you, you fucking loon", he growled, while his clammy fingers gingerly searched for a pulse.

There! A soft throb, weak, but steady.

With swift and skilled movements Dean checked his brother for further injuries, snarling as he found the thickly swollen wrist.

He lifted his brother over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, provoking an unconscious cry of pain. "It's okay Sammy, I'll get us out of here", he whispered, stumbling out into the tunnel on wobbly legs.

Jeez, how could a diet of flimsy salads and girly lattes produce such a giant of a man. He vividly remembered the lanky boy that would've chosen a day in the library every time over exercising some fighting techniques with his dad. When had he become taller and – let's be honest – at least as strong as Dean?

He felt Sam tense a second before his brother began to struggle and fight – weakly, but given Dean's own exhaustion it was more than he could handle.

"Whoa, Sammy – stay calm, it's me… Sam… QUIT MOVING!"

His best imitation of John's commanding voice – and it seemed to work. Actually he wasn't sure if he could have carried his brother all the way to the exit, not with the water once again reaching his hips and a strong current tugging at his feet. With a grunt he lowered Sam until his brother stood beside him, leaning heavily against his shoulder.

"Sam, hey, easy man, I've got you." He turned slightly trying to read the amount of pain in his brother's face, search for the signs of a concussion, now that Sam was awake.

"How're you feeling? What did that bastard to you?"

"Dean? S'that really you? I thought he'd kill you …" – Sam's voice quivered, his legs threatening to give way.

"Whoawhoawhoa" Dean supported his brother, holding him a few seconds longer than necessary, reassuring himself that Sam was there, flesh and blood, shivering, aching, panting – but not dead, thank God, not dead!

Finally he grabbed his shoulders, shaking him softly.

"What on earth were you thinking, going after a Shapeshifter alone? Are you nuts? Remember what Dad told us? Never ever to go on a hunt without backing?"

Sam smiled mirthlessly. "Yeah, and wasn't he setting a good example? A lone wolf, leading us away from him with his fucking coordinates?"

"Okay, okay. Don't let us go into this right now. We gotta move. Can you walk?"

"Are there any other options?"

"Honestly? No. And we'd better get our asses outta here ASAP."

Sam huffed, his voice tinged with pain. "What happened with …"

"That crappy bastard of a Skinwalker? He got Steve, took him for a little swim – I don't think any of them will make it."

He could see the confusion on Sam's face, the wince every time he moved his arm. But right now there was no time to worry about how big the damage was and if his brother was ever going to handle a gun or a knife with this hand again, cause right now they needed to run, faster than the stream of black water, faster than the nightmares coming after them, faster than the thoughts of defeat.

Desperately clinging onto each other they fought for control against the relentless torrent that threatened to wash them away with all the junk that had meant home and hope for some desperate souls down here.

"See that?" Dean panted, nodding towards a lighter shade of gray at a junction of tunnels. He turned his gaze to his brother when he got no answer. Sam's eyes were half closed, unfocussed, his head lolling as if at the edge of consciousness. Damn! He cursed under his breath.

"Sammy? You with me? Come on – I think I've found the exit ... hold on for a bit, we can do this."

"Dean?" Faint, almost inaudible. "Don't leave me, Dean."

Fear clawed at the older man's heart, colder than the water around them.

"Hey dumbass, what're you talking about? I'm not leaving, WE are leaving, ya hear me? My pants feel worse than a toddler's diaper and I could use a hot shower and a warm bed, and so could you. Just a few more steps, Sammy – move your ass, okay?"

He shoved and dragged as gently as possible to get his brother's huge frame going, trembling from the effort. He could see the exit now, the soft grey coming closer, a whiff of cool and fresh air drifting along.

It was like re-entering the surface after a walk through hell's own maze, and he would've felt like crying if there had been any room for other emotions than fear.

The echoes from the tunnel walls gave way to genuine sounds, one-dimensional and comforting – rain, wind, the distant sounds of a big city, sirens – mostly.

Sam seemed to feel it too, because he tried to move under his own steam, though he was still clinging to Dean's jacket with his good hand.

Dawn was offering a small amount of orientation despite the dark clouds covering the sky. Dean could make out the iron rungs on their left side, steering his brother towards them. Wheezing and panting they reached the ladder. The current was stronger here, forming small whirls.

Dean gripped the lowest rung with both hands, his brother resting between his arms where he couldn't be pulled away. He looked at the wall – it seemed as easy to climb as the Mount Everest to him. He had no idea how to get Sam up there, and when he turned his head he saw Sam's eyes fixed on him, huge and knowingly.

"No way," Dean rasped. "Don't even think about it. You lift your left hand and take the next rung as tight as you can, okay? I'll shove you up to the next step. Get a move on, don't chicken out on me!"

Sam shook his head, but he actually moved, aware that if he would let go Dean wouldn't last a second longer.

Every single step appeared to take the last ounce of strength out of Sam, and he wouldn't have bothered to do the next one if it wasn't for the reassuring pressure of his brother right at his back, his arms confining the borders of his being, his legs helping support his weight, lifting him up inch by inch, his lips whispering a constant chain of curses and encouragement, like a lifeline that he could hang on to.

They had nearly reached the edge when Dean felt his leg give way as if switched off. For a second he tried to hold his body only with his hands, but to no avail. There was no time to say anything, no power left – he watched his fingers slip and fell, a puppet cut off from its strings. He heard a cry of desperation – then darkness closed above him.

One moment there had been warmth and hope, strength and reassurance, the next second it was gone. In the blink of an eye. Even in his dazed state of mind Sam could feel the absence of Dean like an unbearable weight in his chest, and he barely managed to keep hold of the last rung.

Everything seemed to draw him down, towards his brother – the wet and heavy clothes hanging from his shaking frame like stones. With his last ounce of strength he grabbed the edge of the channel wall and pulled himself up to the ground, choking and coughing. He tried to lean onto his elbows, to crawl back and look for Dean, but the sudden movement sent another piercing pain through his arm and the world was fading away no matter how much he fought for conscience. His eyes closed over hot tears that mingled with the rain.

Dean hated flying – and the short fall from the ladder into the stream did nothing to improve his opinion. But if he would've been able to think it over, diving would've had a good chance to beat flying on his list of most annoying types of movement. As it was, he was only dimly aware of his body scraping over the rough ground beneath the water, the drift tearing at him while his heavy boots and his leather jacket held him down.

It wasn't in him to simply give up – this was not how John had trained his little soldiers. So he slipped out of his beloved leather jacket, silently swearing. He would've done the same with his boots, but that would've cost him too much time and his lungs were already screaming and trying to escape their prison. Finally he broke the surface and swallowed as much air as possible, turning his head to avoid the furious waves and gusts of muddy water. He could barely make out the rungs he had mounted only seconds earlier.

No sign of Sammy.

Had he made it? Or had he plunged too. Because Dean hadn't been strong enough, not able to save Sam – never been able, no matter how hard he tried.

Crap. He had no time for a guilt trip, he would be of no use for anybody if he drowned. As if to make a point the torrent slammed him into the concrete wall, taking his newly gained breath away. He tried to get a hold on the wall, but the water grabbed him with a million greedy fingers and pulled him under.

He couldn't feel his limbs anymore, couldn't see anything other than yellowish-brown water, and every time he surfaced there just seemed to wait more water to wash over him.

"_It's over,"_ he thought. With the surrender there came some sort of peace. _"I guess it's better than being torn apart by Hellhounds"_, and he let himself sink to the ground. _"At least you don't have to see me die. No one should have to watch his brother go …"_

His conscious was ready to leave and have a look for fascinating new places.

Someone yanked at his shirt violently and pulled his body up and out. He was dragged onto something rough, nauseatingly bobbing on the water. His savior slapped him in the face. Dean was secretly annoyed about this little detour of fate. He started coughing, bile and water rising in his throat until he couldn't stop himself from heaving up his guts.

"Are you planning to go down puking or fighting, hunter?"

Dean startled, opening his eyes to find himself on some kind of wooden pallet – facing Sam. Just that of course it couldn't be Sam crouched on their little raft, sporting a cold smile despite the blood spilling from his side.

"You!" Dean hissed, trying to find his balance. He wanted to kill that son of a bitch who'd not only hurt his brother but also had taken his features – which seemed somehow even more insulting. He fumbled for his weapon at the small of his back only to find it gone – no surprise, after his little whitewater excursion.

"Are you looking for this little cutie? Sorry, couldn't resist when I grabbed your ass and hauled you out of the water." Sam-Shifter pointed to the gun in his waistband, looking secretly amused.

"Then why don't we get it over with it, huh? Come on, kill me, like you killed Steve – and all the other people."

"Unlike you I'm not programmed to destroy everything that's different."

"What do you mean?" Dean spat, desperately clutching to the spinning pallet.

"Why, that's what you're doing, right? 'Saving people, hunting things' – blah-blah. Did it ever occur to you that not every creature different from mankind is evil? That some of us were simply trying to deal with the way they were born, to blend in? Are you going to kill your brother for being different?"

A coughing fit stopped his monologue, his last question reverberating in Dean's mind. How the hell could this … creature … know? Memories about their hunt in St. Louis popped up in his tired mind. Jeez, the bastard had invaded Sam's mind on top of everything, he …

"Yes, I know my bit about the skeletons lurking in the Winchester's closet", the shifter chuckled, the spittle at the corners of his mouth ruby-red. "In fact much of what I've seen in Sam felt rather familiar. The fear, the rage, the desperate wish to be 'normal', this dark and unknown part of him – he's afraid to get in touch with it, but he would … to safe you.

For example – did you know that he came to me with the vague idea to force me into your charming shape? In order to kill me, leave a dead body looking exactly like you … so that the demon holding your contract might be led astray?"

Again a violent coughing, bringing up more blood. The man laughed softly.

"I don't blame him. I would've done the same for Mac."

Dean felt torn, his instincts fighting against each other. He itched to kill the monster that had slaughtered people in its urge for revenge, but still … the creature suffering in front of him looked like Sam. It had rescued him from drowning. And it confronted him with the emotions he hadn't allowed his brother to share.

Dean had always been sure that his brother was in many ways stronger than him. Sam had fought their dad, had left his family to build a live of his own – he surely would survive without his big brother. Probably sitting too many hours in dusty libraries, eating low-carb shit and listening psycho-stuff like Coldplay or Travis, but living. Right?

"As much as I love to watch you pretend thinking …"

Jeez! Dean jerked. He'd almost forgotten the other man on their little ark.

"… it's time to say good bye." Sam-Shifter looked very pale, apart from the red stains at his mouth and side.

"You should be safe here. Try to keep it that way. If only for your brother's sake."

For a second their eyes locked, and Dean thought he could see something like pity in the mellow greenish-brown of the other's gaze, but before he could throw a fierce verbal attack the features of his opponent started to shift like tectonic plates.

With a hideous sound skin began to crack and change its color, limbs twitched, bones broke and moved under the surface in a way that made Dean's stomach heave helplessly. A terrifying groaning and growling accompanied the change, and petrified with disgust Dean had to watch how two perfectly human ears dissolved into piles of gristle and slimy skin, how long strands of brown hair slipped slowly down into the water, revealing a broad skull with stained black fur, how fingernails popped and made place for heavy paws with sharp claws.

Where a shirt had covered the wound in the man's side there now gaped a long bleeding gash along a pit-bull's belly. With a final yelp the dog stumbled to the edge of the pallet and jumped into the muddy water, paddling towards the bank.

The stream had slowed down at the outskirts of the big city, the channel now broad and shallow, the walls gone. In the first daylight Dean could see wasteland, the far hills still covered in clouds.

"Urgh! I'll never watch Hulk again, I swear!"

Dean's leg still throbbed with each beat of his heart, and his whole body was shivering from cold and exhaustion. He didn't have to check the stitches – a look at the dark spots on his jeans told him that he was loosing blood, and considering the ugly soup he'd spent the last few hours in he knew he was a good bet for an infection.

"Okay, one last time – or I'll end in the middle of the desert like a fried fish."

He slipped into the water, gripping the wooden pallet and steering it towards the land. He crawled onto the stony soil, turned on his back and closed his eyes. Just one minute – he'd need only a minute before he would stumble back to the city. Find Sam. And get their asses out of this mess …

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Sin City**

**Genre:** Adventure

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Timeline:** Season 3, the deal with the crossroad demon a ticking time bomb in the minds of our boys

**Summary: **Roaming the gloomy flipside of Las Vegas after a series of gory killings gives the Winchesters an unwelcome glimpse of what loneliness and desperation are able to trigger ...

**Disclaimer**: You know the drill – not mine, still Kripke's, still a part of us anyway

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><p><strong>AN:** This has been one of the toughest months/weeks of my life – but this story has been important to me in a difficult time and I don't want to let my faithful readers have to wait for the last (and shortest) part of it. So here is the end, my friends – hope you enjoy. As always I'm immensely grateful for your opinion. Live long and prosper ...

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><p>First there was a constant rattling that reminded him of rapid fire. He tried to move and found his arms and legs bound, unfamiliar hands working over his body as if searching for something. His right side seemed to be set on fire and he grunted, frantically trying to open his eyes and get free of the chains.<p>

Someone patted his chest, uttering words that didn't make it over the sound of the gunfire. Then a sting, fueling his panic. His ears filled with the desperate sounds of gasping and panting, someone stammered the same word over and over, not making any sense ...

"He's hyperventilating. Gimme the oxygen mask."

Something cold and hard was pressed over his face, cool air assaulting his lungs. A hand stroked over his head, as if to calm him down.

"Dnnn?"

"Hey pal, easy there. We've got you, you're on your way to the hospital. Your wrist is broken and you've got a nice bump on your head, but you'll be okay. You're some lucky devil – there's already a bunch of drowned people reported."

Sam's eyes opened in terror.

Drowned? Dean ... He recalled his brother's warm embrace, lifting him from one rung to another, and all of a sudden he was gone, as if he'd never been there, vanished with a last desperate cry.

His breathing accelerated again, and he tossed his head from one side to the other to get rid of that stupid mask, hollering. He could feel the painkillers setting in, filling his limbs with cotton balls and his brain with spider webs.

"Whoa, hey – shush, calm down. Listen: You stop moving like a caged tiger and I take away the mask, okay? Deal?"

A woman about Sam's age looked down at him with a concerned smile, cupping her hands around his face to stop him from hurting himself. Her warm brown eyes reached out and anchored him until his breathing slowed down. She removed the mask, bending over him to be able to hear his agitated gasps over the noise of the chopper.

"My brother, Dean. He's out there ... fell into the channel when he tried to save me."

Something warm trickled down his cheeks. He didn't care. Time was running out.

"We have to find him, please! Help him. Get ..."

The darkness was back, covering him in a choking embrace. Red lips hovered above him, moving, but all he could hear was a static hissing, receding into nothingness.

The next time he woke up in total silence, and the concerned eyes staring down at him had changed their color into a mossy green. For a second he remembered the insane plan he'd had for the shapeshifter and he jerked back, cold with fear.

"Hey, I can't look worse than you brother." The voice feigning mock hurt, only the eyes revealing Dean's emotions – worry, exhaustion, relief and something else, hidden behind.

"Dean, that really you?" Sam's tongue felt like an alien inside his mouth, too large and dry and very clumsy.

"Yep, dumbass. Do I need to cut myself with a silver knife or is my word going to be good enough?" He was only half joking. In their line of business pure faith could be a deadly sentiment.

"No, I – I guess it's alright." He wanted to reach out, touch his brother to make sure he was really there, sitting beside him, not drowned, not dead. He looked down at the white cast around his arm, his brain too dizzy to process the new situation.

Dean rose from the chair and sat down on the bed beside his brother, grunting a bit when he strained his messed up leg. The large gash had earned him 15 neat stitches and some admiring glances from the blonde nurse who'd assisted the doctor. The pain was a bitch, but nothing that a healthy dose of painkillers and a few shots of JD couldn't cure.

"Want something to drink?" he asked softly. Sam nodded, licking over dry lips.

Dean helped his brother to sit up, held his feeding cup and sustained his neck when Sam fell back into the pillow, weak as a kitten. The hand remained at his neck for a few seconds, warm and reassuring, telling Sam more than words how much he cared.

"So you've sent me some angels coming right from the sky to rescue me, huh?" Dean asked, with a strangely quivering smile. "You DO know how much I love flying, right? Err, thanks – anyway."

"So they really came after you?" Sam asked, the tension slowly leaving his body when he felt his brother's weight right beside him. "But how did you ... I thought ... when I looked into that goddamned stream" – he swallowed.

Dean shook his head.

"I don't know what kind of mojo it is that's drawing all sorts of freaks to you ..." he instantly regretted his choice of words when a Sam closed his eyes and turned his head away.

"Whatever," Dean coughed slightly, "seems as if that Shapeshifter saved my life. Freaks me out, to tell you the truth. He killed all these people – probably killed Steve too, and everything in me screamed to rip his heart out, but he saved me. It feels wrong, Sammy."

His brother turned back to look at him. "I know," he said softly "it ain't easy to deal with all shades of grey instead of the usual black and white. He ... it's as if he'd sneaked into my mind, my thoughts," he shuddered. "He said that I'm ..."

Dean laid his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Don't," he whispered. "You're not like him."

"But the things he was willing to do – the things that made him a monster in our line of business … I'd do them too, if it would save you. You're everything that's left, everything that means something to me. I can't ..."

"Aw Jeez, Sammy", Dean barely managed to keep control over his voice. He had tried to avoid this conversation, but deep inside he knew exactly how Sam was feeling. It was the same mix of rage, desperation, guilt and love that Dean had felt when he had discovered the kind of deal his dad had made. Just that back then it was too late to do anything about it.

"I get it, Sam. I really do. And I'm sorry about it. Believe me, if there'd been any other way to go …," he swallowed. "But having to feel the life seeping out of you, having to watch your body, so quiet, so strange …"

Dean inhaled, shifting uncomfortably. "It was like … something in me had taken control, and I was glad it did, because I felt blind and deaf and dead. The worst thing had already happened to me. There couldn't be anything more terrifying than that. So I made the deal. And I'm glad I did …"

"But?" Sam whispered, unconsciously leaning a bit more into his brother, not needing to look at his brother to exactly know how vulnerable that kind of confession made Dean.

"I don't wanna go Sammy." Voice rasp from raw emotion. "I mean, you know the rules. You know I won't jeopardize your life. But I ain't ready to die too. So if there's a way out of this mess, any way, we'll find it, okay? Just ... don't try it alone, ya hear me?"

Sam tensed, looking guilty.

"Promise?"

A shaky smile.

"Promise."

And this time the silence felt comforting.


End file.
